Of course, Pickmore had been away for a few years and wasn’t aware of everything Henry could accomplish. “One month.” He decided with determination. “I’ll take that costume maker and turn her into the most sought after and trusted debutant to ever grace London.”
Pickmore pulled back. “Costume maker? She said nothing about costumes.”
Of course, she hadn’t but it wasn’t until she was standing by the window reading the guardianship papers that Henry remembered that he’d seen her before. “She works at Drury Lane. I’ve seen her on occasion, her head bent as she repaired costumes backstage.”
Pickmore settled onto the settee. “Others might recognize her.”
“I doubt anyone paid the slightest bit of attention to a quiet seamstress when they visited the actress backstage.”
“You did,” Pickmore pointed out.
“Yes, but I study people. I observe and listen. The other gentlemen were there to…well, you know what their intentions probably were and it had nothing to do with Miss Doyle.”
“Others may know her, or recognize the name. Several gentlemen have gone to Ireland and visited the Doyle Stud Farm.”
“I don’t plan to hide her identity. In fact, I intend to make it work to our advantage.”
“Exploit her, you mean.”
“Of course not. Once we are finished, it will be her choice, of course. I simply want to see it done. When I’m finished, all of London will know Miss Doyle to be the daughter of an Irish landowner, who once operated a successful stud farm, where he made his riches, and she’s now my ward.” She’d also remain in London, seeking out Napoleonic and French sympathizers amongst Society. A trusted miss who had fallen on hard times and suffered the loss of her parents and been abandoned by a derelict brother. Her situation, who she was, was almost too perfect. “The Home Office has wanted someone who could move about thetonand gather information in such a manner, but none of the gentlemen would do, as they were too well known. However, a miss, who had recently become the ward of an earl, would not be questioned. Especially when he plucked her out of the gutter and freed her from a life of living in squalor.”
“You don’t know that she lived in squalor,” Pickmore argued.
“Don’t I?” Henry pulled back. “Did you not note the worn cloak and filthy skirt, not to mention the stains on the material were not only disturbing, but carried a rather offensive odor?”
“As did Mr. Doyle’s breath.” Pickmore shuddered.
“Yes, well, he is not our concern and I wish him good riddance. However, Miss Doyle is another matter entirely.”
Pickmore frowned at him.
“You don’t think it’s possible?” Henry leaned against his desk. Oh, he did enjoy a good challenge and they’d been seriously lacking of late. “I’ll bet you that in one month when we attend my mother’s ball, no one will even guess that Miss Doyle once lived in Covent Gardens and will fool everyone into thinking she’d been born to riches—”
“—She was,” Pickmore reminded him.
“Yes, that’s true, but by the time I’m finished with her, nobody will ever guess that she’s from Ireland. At least, not until they realize her connection to the stud farm.” Excitement filled him. “I even promise that before anyone ever learns the truth, or learns her name, that they will assume she is nothing short of a duchess.” Henry grinned, quite pleased with himself.
Pickmore rubbed his chin and studied Henry. At least he seemed to be warming to the idea, and as soon as he thought about it more carefully, Pickmore would come to agree with Henry.
“Your coffee, Lord Kilsyth,” Mrs. Peade announced as she entered carrying a heavy tray. “Miss Doyle is being cared for, a footman has been sent to see about spectacles, and I’ve sent a note to Mrs. Halford.”
“Very good, Mrs. Peade. Thank you.”
“Who is Mrs. Halford?” Pickmore inquired as he accepted the cup of coffee from the housekeeper.
“A modiste who can be counted on to be quite discrete about her customers. She’s the only one I call on when outfitting my students.” She also outfitted his mistress, but that was another matter entirely and not to be discussed in the presence of Mrs. Peade.
“She works for the Home Office?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Henry took the cup of coffee from Mrs. Peade and once again began to pace. “Better, actually, in that she doesn’t ask questions.”
“Oh, do tell me that you do not intend to train Miss Doyle as the others,” Mrs. Peade begged.
His housekeeper worried too much. “She is perfect for the task, don’t you agree?”
“She’s only a miss of one and twenty,” Mrs. Peade argued.
“The perfect age to embark on a new career. Besides, what else would I do with her?”
